


relapse

by freakedelic



Category: DCU (Comics), Teen Titans: The Judas Contract (2017)
Genre: (pseudo)incest, AU - more trauma, Angst, Bad coping mechanisms, Dark, Dubious Consent, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape "Recovery", Sibling Incest, banging your little brother is not a coping mechanism, dick is so fucked up its not even FUNNY, slade this is all your fault, trauma trauma and more trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-03 11:00:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15817536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakedelic/pseuds/freakedelic
Summary: Deathstroke isn't someone you meet.He's someone you survive.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fudgyokra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fudgyokra/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Little One](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15400785) by [Fudgyokra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fudgyokra/pseuds/Fudgyokra). 



> there is no noncon between dick and damian (thought it's technically statutory rape anyways) but it's a theme and there are some pretty intense flashbacks. slade/dick is included in the pairings because this IS sladedick as much as it is dickdami even if the latter is "endgame", and this is born half out of my love for sladedick and half out of my love for lori and her writing (sorry for mangling ur characterization and tone). this is a sequel to lori's fic Little One, which i heartily recommend, but if you don't read it you'll catch on pretty quickly anyways.  
> actual side pairings are slade/tara, slade/damian, and dick/kori.  
> shoutout to regi aka sevent for betaing.

Slade is a blur of orange and black and grey, pulled from the depths of Dick’s subconscious in  physical, nightmarish form. Dick feels the shuddering waves over the surface of his skin, still present since Slade’s appearance, the never-ending aftermath of when one is suddenly startled. Slade’s twin blades reflect the light that flashes in his piercing eye, the flagging parts of his mask that should be a hazard but aren’t streaming behind his movements like a half mast Jolly Rodgers. This fight isn’t the _snapsnapsnap_ of the one at his apartment, all instinct and sweat and quick thinking—Dick falls back to face Slade, the both of them still spending precious seconds planning movements.

“Here’s your _pipe_ , papa!”

Damian is an angry bundle of green and yellow and red, jumping with the youthful energy only a Robin can bring to bear, slamming his _bo_ down on the top of Slade’s blocking swords. Dick gives up his planning seconds early, moving in to fill Damian’s opening as Robin flips out of the way of a vicious swipe. Dick kicks, Slade blocks; Dick punches, Slade counters with a block-punch-kick combo that almost drowns Dick in déjà vu—

_not like that, boy. You’ll break your hand_ —

but he throws it off. Fighting Slade is like fighting Bruce, because the both of them are so familiar with each other’s movements, the dance is both harder and easier: the unbreakable bond of student and teacher. Dick thinks he would get lost in the battle despite the shaking room, unable to keep his eyes off of Deathstroke, if their exchanges weren’t punctuated by a flying bird by the name of Damian.

Damian’s fighting is _off_. Dick barely has time to think on it, only an instinct to notice the half-step rhythm in Damian’s style is offbeat, the uncharacteristic fury on his face as he slashes at Slade. They have a history, Dick remembers, one entrenched in the League and Damian’s origins.

That’s all it is. That has to be all it is.

Dick flips out of the way of Tara’s falling rocks as Damian recedes, forced to engage Brother Blood. A flick of eyes his way tells him he’s alright for the time being before Slade descends on him with a whole new kind of ferocity. Dick blocks a flurry of strikes, flipping back on the tips of his toes before sweeping a leg low, hoping to catch Slade off guard. Slade jumps easily, a sword bearing down on Dick, and Dick slides between his—

between his legs—

and rolls through the other side, dusty on the shuddering ground, picking himself up as Slade begins to turn. He gets in his first hit, blocking Slade’s sword—but instead of letting it bounce off his gauntlet, he brings his other one up, twisting against the thin blade. It snaps and Slade lets it slip out of his hand, calculating its uselessness. Dick pulls back but he’s not fast enough for the man’s enhanced reflexes.  Slade grabs his wrist and pulls him in using his body weight and brute strength. Dick barely dodges the undamaged sword, feeling it slice through the edge of his costume and draw a slip of blood. He punches down against Slade’s grip, barely breaking out, drawing back before he can make himself any more vulnerable. They circle each other again, Dick’s throat crawling with the knowledge that he just got lucky. His wrist burns even through the fabric, the yelling of the others seeming far off as Gar whoops in short triumph.

Words crawl up his tongue and fall from his lips. “Tara, huh? Some things never change, I guess.”

“Funny,” Slade says, “that was what your latest replacement said as well.”

Dick’s mind processes the possible implications in a split second; Slade charges faster, using his enhanced strength and reflexes to their fullest effect. Knuckles collide with Dick’s cheek and he bends under the pressure, pushing himself to the side and aiming a kick meant as a distraction at Slade’s face. He realizes his miscalculation as Slade’s wrist pushes Dick’s ankle to the side and then fingers close around his leg. With one rough tug Dick is jerked dangerously off balance, falling heavily towards Slade—and his fist. He tastes blood as a superpowered fist collides with his gut. It dribbles down his chin as he contorts forward.

_         You should be better than this,  _ he curses at himself.

        Slade leans in, a hand digging into the back of Dick’s neck. “I taught you better than this.”

Fingers twine in his hair, tugging ever so slightly. Dick can almost smell the expensive brand of aftershave Slade uses. He feels his throat close, a blue eye boring into him. His arms freeze, and for half a second he is looking up at Slade from his knees, Slade’s fingers digging into his hair, pulling him forward onto—

From far away, there is a crashing noise. The grunting yell of pain that follows is piercing and distinctly Damian, even to Dick’s cotton faded ears.

_You are in the middle of a fight. You are fighting Slade. Damian is fighting Slade._

        Dick knees Slade with a grunt. He can’t get much power from his position, but he manages to knee Slade hard enough to make his loose grip recede. Dick ducks down, twisting away from him, narrowly avoiding Slade’s grasping fingers. His breath comes in unnatural gasps as he drops down in a fighting stance that is second nature to him.

        Slade shows his teeth in a horribly familiar smile. He obviously knows the effect he has on Dick. The sword in his hand twists with his circling steps, a thin gleam of blood still painting the blade. Dick sucks in a breath of air, and then another, feeling his racing blood steady.

_         You can do this. It’s just Slade. _

                Just—

  Just Slade.

  (ha.)

Slade charges in two quicks steps, his sword hissing through the air as he comes at Dick. One fist, one implement: he’ll start with a hook. Dick feels himself moving even before Slade’s movements become apparent, ignoring the first feint in favor of dodging the true punch and getting off a swift jab on Slade’s shoulder. He steps with it, barely wincing, his only hand swinging his sword. Dick ducks, feeling the air catch on his sweaty hair, going in for another strike. Slade blocks, counters, Dick slaps away his sword and tries for a more conservative kick. Slade jumps back.

_I should be doing better than this. He’s playing._

Dick jumps to the side, avoiding a stalactite crashing down in a flurry of rocks. Slade moves in to take advantage but the earth splits in front of him, necessitating a jump instead. Dick makes full advantage of the opening, going after Slade with as swift one-two-three punch combination. He blocks the first two, small steps back towards the chasm bringing him closer to its depths. Dick considers cornering him but he’s not big enough,

 not even now,

to keep Slade in, his only option is too keep pressing the advantage—but Slade predicts his movements, barreling into Dick and forcing him back several feet in the wake of unbearable force and unavoidable contact. He imagines the body warmth emanating from the man through his costume. Something hitches him and he really can’t breathe this time, clawing and kicking with disorganized force, all focus on getting the man _off_ of him. His fist connects solidly with the side of Slade’s face, and he relishes the thought of a bruise forming on the man’s unblemished skin, even though Slade’s healing factor would take care of it long before it got to that point.

They are still close, now trading blows with savage intensity in a quick step rhythm, not even seconds between each reaction. It’s good, it’s fighting, it’s something Dick can _handle_.

If he doesn’t think about the man in front of him, breath seeming to intermingle, sweat on both of them in the room, bits of rock buried in Slade’s white hair and tapping distractingly on Dick’s shoulders and arms. There is no room for talk here, only blood and sweat and instinct, hard and calming. He can’t hold Slade for long like this, he realizes, he’s doing more defending than attacking; before long he will make a mistake, and then another.

Something flickers out of the corner of Dick’s eye and he doesn’t have time to turn before Damian is here, flying at Slade, colliding with him as Slade hisses through his teeth in frustration seconds before impact. Damian is pushed back with a swift kick, skidding to a stop, Slade flipping to consider the both of them.

Damian says nothing. His face is tight and angry—and yes, different from his usual sullen expression. Dick has only seconds to worry about it before Damian, without even a word from him, charges. Dick follows the Robin, Slade’s blade colliding with Damian’s gauntlets in an almost silent clinking. Slade manages to flip and aim a kick at Dick, which he dodges easily, countering only to be blocked. Slade moves to follow up with another kick but is interrupted by Damian, a ball of fury who moves like lightning. Damian gets off a good strike, Slade retreating, and suddenly they are pushing him back inch by inch.

Slade’s face is concentrated as he parries the two of them and they almost have the upper hand until they come at him for a painful blow, two at once. Damian nods at Dick without even making eye contact, their secret symbol ignored more than usual, and then goes for Slade’s feet. Dick goes for the head in what might be a finishing blow on anyone else, but will probably only succeed in knocking Slade down, which is a result Dick will take.

Slade expects it and suddenly he is moving too fast to react to, dodging out of Damian’s way and aiming his sword at Dick. Pebbles pour down around them as the deafening collapse of part of the cavern sounds, Damian landing awkwardly and opening his mouth in a cry Dick can’t hear. Slade’s sword cuts through the costume on his arm, spraying blood in a savage arc just under his shoulder. The pain comes seconds later as Dick lands, spinning instantly to face Slade, feeling warm liquid pouring down his arm. Behind him, Brother Blood rumbles, Damian crying out.

Dick turns to look without thought and Slade is on him, a well-aimed punch knocking his head to the side. Slade follows it up with a hook Dick manages to jump away from, arm spasming with pain, landing in a stance. Slade presses his advantage with a double kick which Dick blocks with his good arm. Slade notices—how could he not?—and then he’s pressing in on Dick’s hurt side. Dick tries to block his next kick with his sliced shoulder, but he underestimates how deep it is, the pressure sending a shockwave up his arm that results in a spurt of blood and pain. Slade kicks him in the side, throwing him hard, horribly off balance as the cavern shakes again. It unbalances Slade too, and his next flying kick is easier to dodge, inches away from Dick’s head. He lands too close, and then lands two punches before Dick can recover from his dodge. Dick’s head snaps up and his shoulder jerks with pain.

The ground under their feet is unstable. Slade doesn’t care. He throws all his weight forward against Dick, seeming more of a force of nature than Tara herself. They crash to the ground with Dick on the bottom, ribs fracturing as the air hurries out his lungs—

Slade pins him down, at least two hundred pounds of muscle, fingers pushing down on Dick’s forearms as he stares up into the unmasked face. Dick tries to pull in another breath but his body fights him, wheezing through his throat as his muscles seize against his will. Fingers press into his shoulder and wrist, legs pinning him down on either side of his chest. Disgust rises in him, choking in his throat. He should be able to throw Slade off, to _try_ , because he can pull his own weight now, can fight with the best of them but somehow he’s still—

_fourteen and slade is bearing down on him with the inevitable force of a natural disaster and dick can’t move against his limbs and his chains and slade’s fingers on his face and his neck and trailing down his chest and probing lower, digging into him, covering his lips and muffling his protests, that horrible blue eye meeting his, only pitiless lust reflected—_

in Slade’s approaching face.

“You’re too easy, kid,” Slade tells him, leaning in. Dick hisses through his teeth, gulping for air, forcing his limbs with the effort of Atlas to push back against Slade. He makes his eyes glower with all the hate he can muster, which is, admittedly, quite a bit.

“Then again,” Slade muses, “it’s been some time. You’ve gone rusty without me.”

“I’m _better off_ without you,” Dick gasps. He can feel his dizziness receding in steps, the pressure on him become just another state of being, sensation numbing in his limbs. He’s survived worse, he’ll survive this, if he can just _get out_ from under Slade and his hated warmth. Muscles tense as he tries to wiggle away but he chokes on his own breath again, Slade still looming. He jerks his arm up but can’t quite reach Slade’s _mocking_ face; Dick gives up on it only to seconds later push his own head forward in a vicious crack that slams into Slade’s chin, sending them both reeling. Spots dance in front of Dick’s eyes as he squirms pathetically away, but the important thing is that Slade’s fingers aren’t digging into his flesh anymore—

for a blessed five seconds until Slade collides with him again, this time with his whole body on top of Dick, breath hot on his face.

“Your successor couldn’t escape me either,” Slade rumbles, deep in his throat.

Dick freezes.

Robin.

_Damian._

_Damian was caught Damian was kept Damian was with Slade Damian was Damian was—_

Dick’s mouth would gasp out a protest if there was any air left in it for words.

“He protested quite a lot,” Slade muses, cut only by his hitching fighting breath. “But he took it much better than you, your first time.”

It takes several seconds for Dick to fully process the meaning of the words spilling poisonous from Slade’s lips.

_No. Not Damian._

Dread pulls him down to the depths of the earth and makes his muscles lethargic and his consciousness horrified. If he had known—he never would’ve let Damian near Slade, he should’ve known the man was behind this, should’ve never let Damian off on his own. And now…

And now Damian has had to face the worst of it all, because Dick couldn’t keep him safe.

“Don’t worry,” Slade murmurs, almost—sickeningly—affectionate. “He was a poor replacement for you, kid.”

Dick wants to cry, suddenly, staring up at the earthen ceiling and at the man he hates.

_Replacement, replacement, replacement._

_Damian._

        And suddenly, as if in a dream, Damian is there, red and black and still alive, feet slamming into Slade’s shoulders. Slade curses, falling to the side, flipping up and Dick has to shout his own mind into gear and stumble on terribly weak legs. He expects a half mocking comment as Damian and Slade stand face to face but Damian’s eyes are filled with a rage that is second only to Dick’s own emotions.

        They pale in comparison to Tara’s.

        “Slade!” The broken cry echoes through the cavern as Tara Markov hovers on power, traitor and child, tears dripping from her chin and eyes and cheeks. Rocks the size of heavy bookshelves orbit her with terrifying power. The cave trembles.

        Slade’s lips twist into a frustrated picture and then seconds later into a calculating one—

“Tara, listen, this is all a—”

        The rocks fly at him with Tara’s yells and he curses under his breath, not quite loud enough for Dick to hear his words. He jumps aside with superhuman speed, Tara following him with anger in her heart. Dick feels her name on his lips, unspoken, just another victim of Slade’s. Rocks fall from the ceiling even more now, Tara hurling them at Slade with furious half-accuracy.

        Dick feels his fingers reach out after her, almost on instinct, because Tara...

Tara is just another child destroyed by Slade Wilson, one more Dick couldn’t save, and he can’t find it in himself to blame her for anything at all. He calls her name but she can’t hear and doesn’t care, so wrapped up in her anger and hate. Dick lurches after her, halting as he feels a hand on his arm. Damian stands, balancing somewhat uneasily. He shakes his head.

Dick tries to move forward but the earth cracks in front of him, sending him pulling back with a shock as he stares into incredible darkness.  

        Brother Blood lunges again, half-lost, Raven screaming as her father pulls himself from her mind in a shadowy facsimile of a true demon, still dangerous enough to defeat a mortal playing at god. The cavern shakes, rocks hailing down on the groups, Tara and Slade slipping further into their dangerous dance and further into the depths of the cavern. Dick is rocked back, landing hard with a wince. More of the cave tumbles down around the group.

        “We have to get out of here.” Kori is grabbing at Dick’s arm and he shakes his head to clear it, Damian following as the Titans recede against the tide of falling stone. There’s no way to advance, but Gar seems intent on trying, flickering between forms as he tries to find his way to Tara. He yells her name over and over, the sound becoming one with the crashing of the cave. Dick yells after him in turn, moving backwards as best he can, dancing away from Tara’s unstoppable fury.

        Blue Beetle comes to join them, muttering to his alien attachment as Kori flies off to pull Gar away. He struggles halfheartedly against her.

        Tara is beyond saving. The glint in her eyes tells Dick all he needs to know, confirms every fear as the place comes down around them, even as he moves to the exit with Damian. Dust covers everything, thick air sucked in and choked on, a cloud of ash and regret.

        Tara closes herself in with tears on her face and Dick hopes against instinct that Slade will be buried with her, never returning to haunt any of them again.

(But of course he knows better).


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .

Gar digs her up.

Dick helps, ineffectual compared to a shapeshifter, the hope bubbling up inside him only to fade away into tepid grief. Tara’s body is crushed, bleeding sluggishly from shattered limbs as pale blue eyes stare into nothing. Gar closes her eyes first thing, his own tears splashing onto her face and displacing the dirt there in salty rivers.

Dick places hesitant fingers on his shoulder, enclosing the boy in his arms, the physical contact screeching a warning along his nerves. He ignores it with gritted teeth. Gar cries onto his shoulder.

.

The Titans move out in a staggered procession of wounded. Kori and Dick herd them outside, all smeared with dirt and blood and shaken so deeply that Dick knows will take a long time to heal from this incident, to stitch up the scars of betrayal and broken bonds of loyalty. He worries, but that’s Kori’s job now, he tries to tell himself.

_Let it go._

He can’t. That’s how it always is, and that’s how it is now, but here he has a bigger worry, one that Kori can’t possibly address or understand:

Damian.

Damian is stoic as always, stiff and unyielding. They expect him to be shaken like the rest of the team, but at the same time expect him to be as unmoving as always. Dick knows better. He sees Damian’s fists curled into bloody palms, the almost-pain of his movements. Guilt laps at his ankles and then overtakes Dick in a tidal wave.

_How could I let this happen?_

He never should’ve let Damian off on his own, should’ve spent less time messing around with Kori and more time figuring out the man behind this plot, should’ve been more careful around Tara (should’ve seen the signs) should’ve taken responsibility himself instead of dumping it all on Kori, should’ve _taken care_ of his little brother like the person Bruce trusted him to be.

“We will survive this.” Kori is behind him. Dick flinches violently at the sound. Kori draws back her hand, a worried expression flickering across her face. Dick feels the tremors of his reaction fizzing on the surface of his skin, taking one breath and then another. “Dick, are you . . . alright?” Her lips move strangely around the colloquialism; Dick barely notices. He should say something, bring up the problem she isn’t already aware of, tell her if she doesn’t already suspect;

“I’m fine,” he says instead, the words unfurling automatically off his tongue. Kori senses his small deception, but wrongly ascribes its motivation.

“This is difficult for all of us,” she says sympathetically. “Tara—was . . . someone we all cared about.”

“I should’ve known,” he replies bitterly. “Should’ve seen the signs. Tara was—”

“A good pretender,” Kori says, face lined in sorrow. “A very good pretender.”

“She . . .” Dick trails off. _She was like me. Another one of Slade’s—projects._

_I couldn’t save her. I should have been able to save her._

Kori lets out a soft breath, glancing around, and Dick realizes he should be supporting her now, not pulling her into his own failures. He turns away from Kori, asking after Raven, who walks shakily on her own two feet. Then he turns to Damian, stepping over towards him as inconspicuously as he can; Damian notices anyways, staring up with a guarded, almost strange expression.

“When did Sl—Deathstroke—capture you?” Dick has his suspicions, his guesses.

“I followed Markov and he ambushed me. Traitor,” he adds in his own restrained anger. Damian glances up, predicting the next question: “I’m fine.” The exact same lie that was on Dick’s lips barely a minute ago. Dick opens his mouth to respond, but they are piling into the transport, crammed together in silence as Raven takes her place as the pilot. Dick moves forward to take it instead, but Kori gets there first. A murmured exchange over Raven’s state culminates in the cramped changing of seats as Kori flies them to the Tower.

Silence pervades all. It’s a consequence of broken bonds and the bone deep wrongness that comes when life is upturned in the worst way possible, the status quo shifting in ways that can never be undone. The only sound is Changeling’s muffled half-crying, Raven leaning on him in her exhaustion, an arm reaching to comfort him. Damian is stiff in his seat, several feet away from Dick in the cramped plane.

There is too much to think about and too little distraction, only the whirr of the motor that on any other occasion would have lulled Dick to sleep. Here and now, there is only his guilt, pounding down on every inch of his soul like the pressure at the bottom of the ocean, miles of failures come back to haunt him. He remembers the high collars she wore to hide what Dick is so sure was evidence of Slade, the bruises on her upper arm which could easily have been the side effects of combat but could so plausibly have been fingers digging into her pale skin. She was angry and prickly and traumatized and Dick could swear that some of the companionship . . .

Wasn’t a lie, that the glint of human contact she enjoyed, that she could have been helped. If the Titans had found her first. If Slade hadn’t gotten his talons into her. Slade had his talons in Dick and Dick—

Dick pulled away leaving strings of blood and flesh and part of his soul with Slade, left with scars and bits of claws buried in his being, half-whittled into a monster and grasping at the parts of himself he lost to Slade Wilson and sometimes…

(Sometimes he wonders if it was worth the cost.)

Damian is someone Dick is supposed to protect, supposed to keep from the harm that marked his childhood, like a good older brother would. Bruce trusted him to protect Damian, Damian trusted him, and look what happened—

Because there is nothing else that could have happened, not with Slade’s knowing smile and whispered words. That’s not something that should happen to Damian, because Damian is from _now_ and not from _then_ , because Dick is the one this should be happening to. That’s how it’s always been.

They land with an easy jolt. Kori turns as much as she can in the chair, bright red hair spilling over the dark patterned seat, eyes taking in the tired scene behind her. She licks her lips, opens her mouth, closes it again. Then she begins.

“It’s late. We’ll—reconvene in the morning. For now I need some help with Gar and Raven”—Raven shakes her head, Kori ignores her—“and”—she glances at the body still cradled in Gar’s arms—“and Tara. Get some sleep, or try to. I . . .” she trails off, shakes her head. They all stare, silent and tired. Her voice sounds with renewed resolve. “We’ll survive this. I promise.”

The doors open and they slip out, dirty and bloody and sweaty, the cool canned air of the Tower giving the ship an airing Dick hadn’t realized it needed. Damian rises with an almost imperceptible wince, Gar and Raven holding Tara. Dick feels a uselessness overtake him, bitter in his blood and itching in his skin. He takes Tara from them much more easily than they—he’s older and taller, by much. Tara is lighter than even Damian. Limp in his harms, she is small and skinny and undernourished, the true frailness of her body bared without the fire behind her eyes to show the world. Her limbs are twisted and crushed, most of the bleeding internal but the effects of the crushing rock that covered her obvious. Familiar grief wells in his gut as Gar thanks him softly.

        “Put her in her room,” Kori instructs as Dick makes a move down the hall, and he’s almost surprised that his first instinct is to snap at her. “We’ll figure out something in the morning.”

        Body disposal is always problematic. Too much worry over compromising identities—though Tara didn’t have much of one, Dick supposes. No family either, so no civilian burial either. The Titans were all she had, but she didn’t even have them.

                Just Slade.

The back of Dick’s neck itches in a near shudder. Tara’s eyes are closed, body smeared with the earth she spun so easily. Blood streaks her pale face. _Is that who I would have been? Another nameless casualty of Deathstroke?_

Tara’s room is past the training room, on the side of the tower with Gar’s and Kori’s rooms. Her body seems to grow heavier in his arms with every footstep on the cold tiled floor, trailed by his teammates, who speak to each other in low tones.

Dick really, really suspects this is not a good way to deal with a dead body. There’s supposed to be body bags and police, but he doesn’t find it in him to care. They’ll probably bury her in the clothes she wears, for all they know, a ceremony if Gar has his way and an unmarked grave if Raven has hers.

It’s almost a joke.

The soft whirring of the door to Tara’s room gives way to a bedroom and a bathroom. Dick has been in here once or twice. It looks horribly lived in, clothes halfheartedly put away as they hang off the top of the dresser, bed messed as if Tara had just walked in. There’s something bare about it, too, all personal effects forgone in favor of generic decorations, no personality except the carelessly discarded effects.

He steps in, carefully avoiding a fallen dress, unsure why he bothers to preserve the room but unwilling to stop. Tara slips out of his arms onto her bed. Dick folds the edges of the blanket over her in a coffin of cloth. She would seem asleep if not for the blood on her face (blood now smeared on Dick’s costume) and the pallor of her skin, and suddenly Dick’s fingers are brushing the dirtied blonde hair out of her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says to her empty face. The sound lives for not even a second and then dies in the small room where Dick stands with a corpse. He stares for several more seconds, emotions swirling on his gut and on his face. When he turns, he does so with a soft exhalation, stepping into a silent passage, making his way around to his room. As he does so, he becomes acutely aware of his aching muscles and fatigued body, blood dripping down his arm from Slade’s cuts—something he hadn’t even bothered to think about, pain he ignores once again.

He tries not to think about Slade as he feels the day catch up to him, chest aching with a horrid feeling he can’t name and the bruise from the bullet from Slade’s gun.

The door to the NIGHTWING room slides open easily on a half-messed space, Dick kicking aside the discarded clothing from so many weeks ago. Moving out of the Tower isn’t a decision he regrets, exactly, even if living alone gets—well, lonely. He strips in the solitude of his room, the suit stuck his skin by blood and sweat and peeled onto a messy heap on the floor. Dick turns the shower on, getting in before it fully warms up and not caring a bit, the water cascading through his hair and splattering to the ground in asynchronous noise. Blood swirls to the ground, still spilling sluggishly from Dick’s arm—he’ll have to do something about that, or maybe not, depending on what he feels like. Water washes away the sweat of the day and Dick feels himself sag into it, letting out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. His fingers press against the shower’s ceramic edge as he tilts his head up into the spray, glorying at the sensation of water running down his face in rivulets.

The visage of Slade forms behind his eyelids, teeth spread in a smile that makes his hair stand on end even against the water. Dick opens his eyes, shower water spilling into them as he splutters, feeling the hard knot of something in his gut begin to loosen, beginning to leak its pain. The places where Slade touched him then and now itch to the bone along the surface of Dick’s skin and he rubs his shoulders, thinking of the man who fought him and pinned him and held him and it’s too much. Dick slides down the side of the shower, landing to hard at the bottom. The soles of his feet brush against the drain but he doesn’t notice as he curls in around himself, fingers digging into his hair almost absently.

Dick feels removed from the situation, the second image in crossed eyes, feeling the tears pool in his eyes only to be washed away by the shower water.

_Why are you crying?_

He thinks of Slade, orange and black and white, and he almost doesn’t know. The day has finally caught up with him, he supposes, the emotion taking its toll on his mind.

It’s embarrassing and it’s pathetic but he can’t stop the tears, like some part of his brain is screaming itself hoarse in a language Dick can’t understand. He tries to pull himself back into his body, running his fingers down slick skin, back and forth across bruises and scars and bloody wounds. It’s soothing, like the water, and his fingers drift slowly lower until they close around his cock.

Masturbation is as good a relaxant as any, he supposes, spreading his things in the cramped space to let the water run down them and working his fingers slowly up and down. He thinks absently of Kori, in something lacy and small, fingers on his chin and flickering over his lips and roving lower as he springs to life in his own hand. Kori disrobes slowly, blurred in his fantastical image, unclasping the bra and slithering out of the rest with small, smooth movements. She’s paler as she climbs onto his bed, hair and eyes washed out to white and blue, a strong hand splayed on Dick’s chest. He’s pressed into the sheets by Slade, cruel eyes pitiless, growled words threatening.

The water on Dick’s face might be tears or it might be shower water or it might be Slade above him and Dick doesn’t care, small huffs of breath giving away his activity. Shame crawls over his skin, disgust and hatred, and he tries to ignore it and change it—

Slade’s younger now, small and straddling Dick’s hips, the pale brown eyes of a child Dick sent crying to her mother from a fire staring up at him in desire as her lips move lower. Desire drowns out any of Dick’s true misgivings, imagining lips as the water against his cock, dark hair and tanned skin naked and small between his legs. He’s almost there now, working more earnestly, mouth open as water drips from it, expelling short moans in time with his hand.

The child stares up at him with bright green eyes, licking slickness off his lips, and Dick lets out a long moan. Cum spills over his fingers to the thought of his little brother staring up at him and licking redded lips, a lazy smile on his face.

Dick rides out his orgasm in short strokes, opening tight eyes for the first time to stare at the wall across from him, white and blank and reminiscent of a hospital. Slickness is washed off his fingers and down the drain as Dick feels sickness roil in his gut, hatred and loathing and disgust boiling through his brain.

_You’re sick._

_You’re sick like Slade._

Dick shudders, bringing himself to his feet, hands curled into fists. He runs the soap over his body, once and then twice, heedless of the pain in his cuts, scouring his skin of everything wrong with him. He wants to peel off his skin, cut out his sickness, burn the things Slade touches and Dick exists in until he’s finally clean of it all, of the guilt of Damian and Tara and that grows its way like ivy herself into the cells of his being.

And then he shuts it all out of his mind, puts Damian staring up at him and Slade’s fingers against his face in a tight little metal box and puts it on his perfectly ordered shelf just like Bruce has taught him to, tries to stuff Slade Wilson back into the corners of his mind and the depths of his subconscious, a monster best left to the darkness. A monster that should be scared away by light.

There is a part of him that insists he should leave Damian alone, but he ignores it. Dick—Dick knows control like he knows the back of his hand, thanks to Bruce. He’s not going to let the _thing_ infecting his mind stop him from caring about his brother, stop him from helping Damian as best he can.

Dick scratches at his arms as he steps from the shower, bracing the pain against his shame, locking his actions away. He throws on some clothes, drying off haphazardly and splattering water onto the floor of his room. Even looking at his reflection in the mirror hurts.

He’s barely bleeding from his shoulder and he supposes he should let Raven or Gar have a look at it but it’s not the right time to care, and instead he puts his shoes back on and pads to Damian’s room, hair slicked down with the water from the shower.

Dick knocks softly on the sliding door before tapping it open. The light flickers on to a room much cleaner than Tara’s, kept perfectly spartan with few effects. Pictures of Damian with Dick and Ace and Batcow sit on the dresser, a gift from his last birthday. It makes Dick happy to see his presents appreciated, happy to see that Damian is fitting in well enough with the Titans. Kind of. As well as can be expected, anyways.

The most pressing thing about the room is that Damian isn’t there, even after Dick steps over to the bathroom and peeks into it—smooth marble and various toiletries are the only things he sees. He hovers outside Damian’s room for several seconds, running through possibilities, and then decides to check the training room. Dick moves back to the other side of the building, any edge of ironic humor he may have felt at the back and forth journey burned away by the day’s events.

The room the Titans use for training is the most expensive and expansive room in the building, surpassing even the well-stocked kitchen Gar loves. _Bo_ s, _kama_ s, and sparring gear are well-stocked—Dick remembers his own mild bemusement at the concept of using padded gear to spar, never having used it with Bruce.

_(or slade)_

An advanced computer-based training system provided by the billionaire himself is set in the walls, but no glowing holograms greet Dick when the lights flicker on across the long, padded room. Sure enough, Damian is on the far side, near the punching pads, dressed in loose clothing for training.

The boy sits against one of the big black punching pads, curled in on himself, hands around his knees. He’s terribly small in the long place—he’s been sitting still for so long the lights have turned off—and Dick feels almost instantly as if he’s intruding on something private.

Damian seems to feel the same way. He hops to his feet after the lights start to flicker on, starts down the room towards Dick with the air of someone leaving. Sure enough, as they get close, moves to brush past. Dick brings a hand forward to rest it on Damian’s shoulder but it only gets inches before he thinks better of it.

“Damian—”

Damian turns his head to the side, stopping his footsteps but not moving his body. “What?” His voice is laced with frustration.

Dick opens his mouth and suddenly doesn’t know what to say. What are you supposed to say? What is there to say?

All he knows is that he doesn’t want Damian to be alone. Alone like he was, when he was just barely older than Damian, tears torn from his eyes as he curled under the blankets.

“Are you okay?” Dick asks lamely.

“I’m fine,” Damian says, again, lying like Dick knew he would. “I was training.” Seconds pass as Dick curses at himself to find the _right words_ , Damian starting to move towards the door again.

“I need to know if Slade hurt you,” Dick says suddenly. His eyes bore into the back of Damian’s head as he turns to look. Damian stops in his tracks, doesn’t move, eyes still fixed away from Dick.

“He didn’t,” Damian protests abruptly. “He knocked me around. Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Damian . . .”

“I’m _fine_.” Damian still doesn’t move. His voice sounds cramped.

Dick takes a breath. He needs to reach Damian, and to do that, he needs to bring up something he hasn’t talked about in years and years and years. “When I was—when I was your age, Slade—”

“You always call him that.”

Dick’s eyebrows crinkled for the briefest of seconds, and then, “Oh—Slade. Slade.” He tests the name on his lips, terribly familiar. “I . . . you’re right. I guess I do.” It would be wrong, to call him anything else, after the way they were at the end, after their . . . relationship. He’s not _Wilson_ , not _Deathstroke_ , not to Dick. He’s _Slade_ , a horror Dick knows on unimaginably intimate terms. He knows Slade’s favorite type of coffee—a dash of milk, one scoop of sugar—the music Slade listens to when he has the radio on, the off-brand shampoo he uses religiously. Now Damian knows him too, much more than anyone should have to.

The silence stretches on. Damian doesn’t move, and neither does Dick. Eventually the former speaks.

“He talked about you.” His voice is still strange.

Something pangs inside Dick, the confirmation of the incident he already knew but didn’t quite believe, something else he pushes away. “What did he say?” he asks softly, unsure if he wants to know.

A longer, tenser pause. When he speaks, Damian’s voice is rough, the words coming slowly. “He said . . . he said, ‘Tell your senior Boy Wonder I missed this.’”

Dick closes his eyes. He can hear the question echoing in the silky confident voice so familiar to him. There is no question of what _this_ is, Slade’s fingers and lips and cock in him and against him, sticky and sweaty and sick. His arm aches, the skin the man had touched so little time ago itching to the bone. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

He knows just how meaningless the words can be. They seem pathetic in the silence of the large room, admissions of his failures as an older brother.

“Yeah, well,” Damian says bitterly. “He had his _fun_. It’s _over_ now.”

_If only it were that easy,_ Dick thinks. Maybe it’ll be easier for Damian, one violent instance, not weeks and months of Slade’s voice and body and crooning tones in his ear. He hopes so desperately. It should be easier, this _wasn’t supposed_ to happen to Damian; it seems to Dick to be a fluke in the cosmic scheme of things, something the universe can duct tape over and move on from. Let them all move on.

“It still hurts,” Dick says lamely, and he realizes he is talking about himself, adding hastily, “it can. It can still hurt. Even if it ends.” The little movement on Damian’s end is the boy folding his arms, covering his chest, protecting himself.

“Well—I mean, it _hurts_ ,” Damian admits. “Nothing I can’t handle,” he adds, lest Dick think less of him.

“Slade probably tore something,” Dick says. His voice sounds clinical to him, more comfortable out of the realm of emotions and pain. “Did he use lubricant?”

Damian doesn’t answer, and Dick is about to repeat his question, and then—“Yes.” Another pause, expecting. “It was—was right _there_. Next to him. Like he . . . expected—like he planned . . .”

Dick finds words melt on his tongue, dissolving like gritty paper. The silence stretches on, but Damian seems finished. “There’s some painkillers in my room.”

“I don’t need them.”

“Well, no, but—you don’t have to _need_ them. They just make it hurt _less_.” Damian is silent for a second and a half; Dick takes the initiative, moving in front of him and out the door.

“C’mon.” He looks back to see Damian’s face is red, body tense in the loose clothing he hadn’t trained in. Damian moves to catch up with him with a prominent swallow, Dick turning his gaze ahead as they tread again towards Dick’s room. He wonders if he imagines Damian’s winces of pain as he tries to move in step on much shorter legs. Either way, Dick slows down to accommodate him. He hopes Damian doesn’t notice.

The room is exactly as Dick left it when he left, drying towel draped over the half-made bed and dirtied uniform on the floor. Dick self-consciously kicks it to the side as he moves in, making his way towards the bathroom. Damian sits gingerly on the bed as the door whirrs shut behind him.

Mist is still drying off of the mirror, leaving in clearer than before— _free cleaning_ , Dick remembers trying to explain to Alfred. He doesn’t bother to pull the curtains across the shower before rummaging in the cabinet for the painkillers. For a brief moment of dread he thinks he’ll have to go all the way over to the infirmary, but no, he pulls out a half decent selection of hopefully not outdated medication. Dick thinks it takes a long time for these things to go bad anyways. He gathers them in his arms and grabs a cup from under the sink, filling it with water and using his superhero’s reflexes to bring his collection out to Damian.

Damian takes the small paper cup without protest, scooting back more comfortably onto the bed. Dick shows off his haul, holding them up one by one.

“I have ibuprofen, Advil, uh, ibuprofen but grape flavored . . . tasty.” Dick didn’t realize he had that. He’ll have to take advantage of it the next time he gets messed up.

Damian rejects the child’s medicine with a sniff, and Dick spends several seconds looking at the directions on the bottle for the correct dosage. He pours it into Damian’s waiting hand. Damian swallows it easily, throwing his head back and draining the cup in several easy gulps. Dick watches his throat pulse, and he’s reminded violently of the scenes playing in his mind barely an hour before, Damian staring up at him through lidded eyes, swallowing everything and slowly licking red lips—

Dick pushes it out of his mind with all the force of his considerable will, disgust at himself he is horribly used to pooling in his gut. Damian hands the cup back to him, Dick turning back to the bathroom to dispose of it.

The mirror is clear enough that Dick can see his own face, and he looks awful—hollows under his eyes the same shade of already swelling bruises on his jaw and on his neck—

_fingerprints—_

he shudders and flicks his eyes back down to the counter, tossing the cup in the garbage near the toilet. He manages to brush his teeth with minimal pain from either his shoulder or his facial bruises. His shirt comes off with little problem, revealing yet more bruises and dozens and dozens of scars. The tape over his arm doesn’t come off, and he just adds a little more to get him through the night before pushing the bathroom door open and turning off its fan and light.

Damian lays back on Dick’s bed, curled in on himself on top of the blankets; Dick is surprised that he hadn’t left. _He must be more scared than he’s letting on._ Damian looks small, black hair splayed across the covers, and Dick almost wonders what he would look like with his mouth open, fists curled into the sheets, underneath—

Dick pinches himself, hard and painful. He’s tired. That’s all this is. He’s slipping, he’ll be better in the morning—

The urge to lay down next to Damian enters his brain. He dismisses it with impunity.

Damian notices the staring, starts to move, but Dick casts his eyes down and goes back about his business. The couch in the room is hard and not particularly comfortable, but it’ll do. Dick finds a thin folded blanket over it and pulls it over his shoulders as he goes to turn off the lights. Damian makes no noise of protest. Dick pauses several seconds to let his eyes adjust to the dark before he feels his way back to the couch, pulling one of the pillows to better support his head and wrapping the blanket around him. There is no sound but Damian readjusting himself in Dick’s master bed. The soft rustling lulls Dick as he finds out he is more tired than he realized minutes before dropping off into an uneasy sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow im wordy.  
> also........... smh @ dick BUT that's what you heathens are here for.  
> im getting a lil high from seeing chapter 2... i haven't written multichap in YEARS :D

**Author's Note:**

> comments feed me ;)


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